Once Agnes had settled on a chair beside Margaret, he spoke to Hobart.
“Heu geschnitten,” Hobart said.
Edwin realized his thorough education in Latin had severe limitations. He did not have a single hint in the interpretation of German. Hobart used hand gestures and some of the other people offered the suggestion that perhaps the hired man had to cut the hay.
“Ja, hay.” Hobart nodded.
Together, he and Hobart walked to the McGowans’ barn. Edwin’s slow and awkward gait did not annoy Hobart who made several attempts at further conversation, but while he did know a few English words he pronounced them with such a heavy accent that Edwin could not decipher his meaning. However, as they neared the barn, Hobart came to a sudden stop and quieted. With a frown, he turned his head and studied the area.
Edwin did not see anyone. In fact, he did not hear anything either. All was silent except for the rustling of the leaves in the light breeze.
“Das Loyalists,” Hobart growled as he broke into a run and headed for the barn.
Edwin stumbled along far behind. By the time he reached the stable, he found Hobart sitting on the milking stool and shaking his head.
“Gegangen.”
Edwin glanced around. All lay as quiet as a tomb. Swindle was gone. So were the cow and the calf. Not a sign of the sheep either. All had vanished.
Hobart sniffed, pointed to one of the empty stalls, and in intelligible English said, “Look.”
Edwin moved toward the stall, but stopped when he saw what lay inside. A pig’s head nestled in the hay. Across the forehead, written in blood, was the word, “Traitor.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“It wasn’t Jonas.” Agnes shoveled the charcoal into a heap and pointed to the chain for the bellows. “You can start pulling on that now.”
“How can you be sure?” Edwin asked as yanked on the chain.
A delightful shiver shimmered down her spine as she watched him, for the effort did not seem to require much exertion on his part. She realized after a moment she had not answered his question.
“Jonas had different markings on his ears.”
“All pigs look alike.”
“No, they do not.” Agnes sniffed. Poor Jonas had been such a marvelous pig. “I want to make a cannon and blast their boat to smithereens.”
“You can’t make one. Can you?” Uncertainty shadowed his features as the charcoal began to glow.
“No.” Tears misted in her eyes and she struggled to keep them from falling. Colleen now lay buried in the graveyard, but Agnes still mourned for her. “I wish I could, though. They knew everyone in town would be at the wake. They planned this horrible deed. First the murder and setting fire to the house, then stealing our remaining livestock.”
“We cannot be sure about the murder. It might have been an accident…”
“Who were the men running into the woods? Who stole our animals?” Anger filled her with heat and gave her energy. Sadness and mourning drained her. She wanted retribution. She wanted those men caught and punished.
Vengeance is the Lord’s. Did she need another stain on her soul? She had already lied.
“Neither Hobart nor I saw anyone when we walked to the barn,” Edwin said. “Whoever stole your livestock covered their tracks well. We searched for some sort of trail, but found nothing.”
“Every step was taken into consideration. It was a brilliant maneuver.”
“Do you think the word on the head of the pig was meant for you?”
“The Tories believe all Patriots are traitors. In addition to stealing our food, they make a concerted effort to intimidate us.” Since she could barely sleep due to fear, the enemy’s plan worked quite well. “They will continue to cause havoc unless we stop them. We will have nothing to eat while they dine like kings.” She picked up Aunt Sally’s broken trivet.
“The rations served to my company had a distinct lack of any kingly properties.”
Agnes’s pulse jumped, she glanced around praying nobody heard him. “Do not speak…of that,” she whispered. “You are our cousin. Make no mention of your company.”
“We ate porridge and beans. I hated the slop.”
“We’ll be lucky if we have that.”
“The raiding party must have been huge, considering what they took.”
“Yes, that worries me. Their numbers seem to have increased.” She searched through her supply until she found a rod which nearly matched the other legs on the trivet. “Although, they did not take everything. They left the ox.”
The heat of her wrath tightened into a spiral until once again the pain returned to her heart.
“The charcoal looks hot now,” he said after a few minutes.
She picked up the tongs. “Of course, the only person who can get the ox to move is Hobart.”
“The ox understands German?”
“No, Uncle Fitz told him to use English, but Hobart’s English is difficult to understand. Only the ox understands Hobart.” She nestled the rod into the glowing charcoal. “Keep pulling, evenly and steady. Aunt Sally won’t give me a moment’s rest until I repair her trivet.”
“At least you have someplace to stay.”
“Living under the same roof with Aunt Sally will be a challenge.”
He gave a light laugh. The sound slid along her rib cage, almost as if he had tickled her. “Your aunt is a singularly minded woman.”
Agnes sighed. “We do not see eye to eye.”
“Because she wants you to marry the miller?”
“I will not marry anyone.”
“Perhaps if you had a choice of someone younger…”
She looked into his eyes, but they had darkened and no longer glowed with the bright sapphire light she found so appealing. “I do not want to marry anyone. I don’t care how wealthy he may be. I want to work here in the forge and take care of Margaret.”
“What if Margaret decides to marry? She told me about a friend of hers who is a drummer in the continental forces.”
“Yes, Francis. They played together as children.”
“When the war is over, he’ll return and court her.”
Agnes pouted. “Francis has no plans for the future. He has been undecided about what sort of trade he should join as an apprentice.”
“He sounds like me.”
“But you are…or were…”
“I made a mistake.”
“Did you take the king’s shilling then?” she whispered. What a horrible deception!
“No, I joined on my own, wanting to get away, wanting to see the world…hoping to add specimens to my botanical collection.”
“Are you of a scientific mind then?”
He did not answer directly so she glanced up at him. His brow had furrowed and he appeared deep in thought until he caught her staring at him.
“I cannot say if I am scientific,” he answered in a soft tone. “I developed an interest in collecting plants because I spent many pleasant hours in the company of our vicar, who amassed an enviable assemblage of specimens, which was given to me at his death. Yet, in truth, I do not know whether my talents lend themselves to a scientist’s curious nature.”
“Science is all well and good, but a trade is far more practical,” she declared. “You will be my apprentice. Smiths are in great demand.”
“I must return to my company.” His tone turned sharp and she felt the sting of it.
“Please keep your voice down.” She glanced outside, but though no one passed by apprehension flickered through her.
“While I consider killing other men abhorrent, I will not be a traitor,” he whispered. “Since I have been injured, they may send me home to recuperate or give me the job of secretary. That would be better than shooting and stabbing other souls until they are dead.”
“The problem is getting you out of this county safely. Mr. Newton’s brother is an attorney in Elizabethtown. I wrote to him and asked if you might have a passport.”
“What?”
<
br /> Despite the heat of the forge, the chill of his question sent a tingle of fear sliding up her spine.
Again she glanced about to be sure no one lingered in the shadows outside the doorway. “I explained how my mother’s cousin came searching for us, but was waylaid and robbed. The thieves took your papers and you needed new ones to return home.”
“Why should he believe you?”
“I am certain Mr. Newton will testify to your character.”
“In a time of war, you are asking for a favor that will undoubtedly make me more suspect.” Sharp flint sparked from his eyes.
She swallowed hard. He would have been a formidable foe in battle.
“Mr. Newton’s brother is a pleasant fellow whom I have met on two occasions.”
“When it comes to the law all aspects of his charming personality may vanish.”
A sad lump lodged in her chest. “I can think of no other way to ensure your safe passage.” She paused as another thought came to her, which seemed a reasonable, if only partial, solution. “You could sign an oath of allegiance.”
“No!” He spat out the word with more vehemence than she expected. “I will not be a traitor.”
“You will not be safe,” she shot back at him.
“I must take my chances.”
As he crossed his arms and glared at her with his sapphire eyes, she had to fight against her emotions. She would lose him. Forever. Why did that matter so much?
* * *
On Sunday, Edwin huddled in the loft above the forge, trying to avoid the water dripping through the holes in the roof. The sky had opened up and torrents of rain poured down as streams ran from every crack and crevice. Climbing the ladder to the loft had worsened the pain of his wound, for he had bumped into one of the crude rungs going up and the stabbing ache would not abate no matter which way he turned.
He missed the fine, soft bed in the McGowans’ home. Aunt Sally’s cottage was smaller than the McGowans’ house had been. Besides, the formidable aunt deemed it unseemly for him to stay there. Hobart’s miserable hovel had room only for Hobart. The Newtons’ inn had filled with travelers and he had nothing to give them as payment except his boots, but he could not part with them. The Newtons offered him the shed where the drunk had met his end which had a small cot. Edwin declined that offer.
He consoled himself with the fact that the loft was far better than a tent on the ground, for then he would be sitting in mud as well. In the dim dampness, he tried to focus on something other than the agony in his leg.
The burns on his hands had improved. Agnes applied salve and bandages to them each day and he enjoyed her tender ministrations. The wound on his thigh persisted in being ugly and while pus no longer drained from it, he did not notice a reduction in the size.
Agnes devised a splint of sorts to keep his knee straight and that helped to ease some of the ache, but he walked at a snail’s pace. Everyone else had braved the muddy road to attend Sunday services. However, Aunt Sally had calculated that he would never be able to walk that far and if they had to assist him, they would all arrive late.
So he lay alone on his lumpy hay-filled mattress and wondered how to escape this deplorable situation. He likened it to prison, although he knew that in shackles he would not have as sweet a caretaker as Agnes.
He dreamed of her at night, of her softness, her flowery scent, and her small waist. She was quite beautiful, more so than any other young women he had seen. Her eyes seemed to hypnotize him with glints of gold and amber. The shape of her face, her pert nose, and the gentle curve of her delicate chin pleased his senses.
She did not dress in fine silks, but she did not need them. She possessed considerable physical strength yet tenderness blossomed from her heart.
He no longer considered collecting information about the rebels a viable occupation. He had seen how difficult it was to judge friend from foe and he did not wish to cause any trouble for the McGowans. They had enough difficulties.
The Newtons had told him of General Clinton’s clever plan to ferry his army to safety in New York from Sandy Hook. Edwin wondered if the general would remember him. Chaos reigned as the battle raged all about, but the general’s hand held steady as he handed him the paper, pointed out a spot on the map, and ordered him to proceed with haste.
He recalled how the general had stared at him for a moment, frowned, and mentioned how very much he reminded him of someone. Edwin had frozen in fear, wondering if Clinton had ever met the Duke. However, after a moment, the general shrugged and shook his head. Edwin gave a hasty salute and retreated.
He ran his fingers along the surface of his coarse, common clothing. Without a uniform, without his message, and without a horse, he had been reduced to nothing more than an ordinary beggar. He understood that Sandy Hook was not a great distance away, but with his leg causing him constant affliction, he feared he could go no farther than a mile and that would take him three times as long as usual in his current state.
The pain in his leg hurt worse than it had when he had come to his senses in the barn. When he urged Swindle into a gallop to reach the McGowans’ house and pull Colleen out of the fire, he aggravated the wound. Nevertheless, he thought he might be able to ride as long as he kept his leg straight. No one nearby owned a horse except for the miller, and those were draft animals.
He continued to think of a means of escape, but the more he did, the more thoughts of Agnes intruded upon him.
He was not blind to her attractiveness and enjoyed her company. She stirred tender feelings in him with simply the touch of her hand. He had been as cold as dry charcoal, but just as a pull on the bellows made charcoal glow, she woke a smoldering fire in him. From the moment he stared into her large, hazel eyes, his heart leaped in a far more disturbing way than it had in the midst of battle.
He knew it was all foolishness. He must return to his company. Setting his mouth in a firm line, he resolved not be swayed by temptation. After all, he would have no trouble finding another woman in England and certainly one better born, even if none were as beautiful as Agnes. Though he was the youngest son of the Duke, his lowly position made no difference to anxious mothers looking to foist their offspring on him. After a few weeks in London, he would find a suitable match.
Another spasm of pain in his leg reminded him of Agnes’s gentle ministrations as he suffered through the fever. Her sweet voice had been as soothing a balm to him as her skill in healing the infection.
He chuckled aloud as a peal of thunder shook the ground and he remembered her words. “You’ve been a much better patient than the pig.”
Fancy any dainty, young English lady taking a musket ball out of a hog or bending a bar of iron into a tool.
As the dreary, watery day dragged onward, thoughts of her brightened his misery. She promised to return to work in the forge even though it was the Sabbath. She declared the labor consoled her in her grief. The picnic in Shrewsbury Towne had been canceled due to the inclement weather. Not that the McGowans thought of joining in the fun at this point.
He picked up a few stray pieces of straw that had fallen out of the mattress. Whenever he and the vicar passed by haystacks on one of their walks, the cleric would recite Rebekah’s words from the Bible, “We have plenty of straw and fodder, and also a place to spend the night.”
Edwin smiled, wondering if Rebekah looked anything like Agnes.
A few other pieces of loose hay floated away on a small rivulet as the rain beat harder upon the roof. The little golden reeds sailed along until they fell over the edge of the loft.
A boat! That’s what he needed. The Loyalists used boats on the river. He did not need a large vessel. He had great skill in rowing and sailing. With the right tide, conveying himself to Sandy Hook would be easy. He should be able to find safety there, for it remained a British stronghold with a large contingent of British regulars and Loyalists.
Yes, if he found a boat. Or stole one.
He shook his head in despair. Must he
now resort to thievery? He should be sitting in a comfortable chair at Oxford, studying musty tomes of law. Following his father’s orders did not seem such a horrible prospect at the moment.
When he heard something bang against the door of the forge, his downtrodden spirit lifted, thinking Agnes had returned. But then came a loud squeal accompanied by a grunt.
A pig?
Another squeal pierced the soggy air as the persistent would-be intruder bumped into the wooden door once more.
Edwin groaned as he painfully crept down the ladder while the animal continued attempting to barge in. “It’s not much less wet in here than it is out there,” he called.
The beast seemed mollified by his words, for it stopped hitting the door.
When he drew back the latch, the creature nearly knocked him over. It peered at him in the dim light and grunted before putting its snout to the ground and searching the small structure.
“Were you looking for someone else?” He closed the door.
The pig sat down and let out a loud guttural sound.
“You appear to be rather comfortable here.” Edwin never concerned himself with animals other than horses, dogs, frogs, and an occasional turtle as a child. He did not know much about livestock. He made their acquaintance when they were served up on a platter at breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
He eyed the pig warily. He had a fondness for fresh pork, but while he had often gone hunting with his brothers and friends, he had never skinned an animal or gutted it. The servants handled that job.
He assumed Hobart possessed the skill for such a task. Edwin decided to insure that the pig did not escape. With that goal in mind, he hobbled around the forge searching for a length of rope.
Hampered by the dimness, he grumbled. “If I opened the door, I would have more light, but then you might walk out.”
The pig grunted his assent.
“Indeed, you walked in, but if the rain stops you may decide to go outside and root around for your dinner.”
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